Read Online The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) by Laura Drake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Drake
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brushed her hand. Hanging from a hook on the back of the door was an apron. She remembered it. Her mother’s barmaid apron.
The pocket gapped. Priss reached in and pulled out a roll of money, held together with a rubber band. No evening’s tips, these—twenties and tens, more than an inch thick. When she slid the band off and unfurled the bills, a piece of paper fell out. She unfolded it to find a list of states, with a line through Nevada, Florida, Michigan and Ohio. What, was she trying for a man in every state? Priss flipped through the bills, counting, stunned by the tally. What had she been saving for? Bail money for Nacho’s father before the trial? A deposit on a decent place to live in? Nah. Cora Hart had lived in places like this her entire life, and she’d been way too old a leopard to change her spots.
Priss fingered the rough, dingy white cotton rectangle with its long, dangling ties. Her mother had owned it forever. When it began whispering memories, Priss lifted it off the peg and tossed it over her shoulder to silence it.
Hell, she was back in her mother’s world—why not use her old apron? Priss told herself she wasn’t being sentimental, just practical; she needed an apron anyway.
The alarm on her phone blatted “Reveille.” Time to get to work. She slipped the map and the money into her purse, and took the few steps to the living room.
Snatching up the half-full plastic bin, she walked out, locked the door to the past once more and slipped the key under the door.
* * *
A DAM STOOD IN front of his narcotics shelf taking inventory, when a woman’s voice screeched in his pocket. Dang it, Sin must’ve reprogrammed his phone again. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. “Sin, this is not funny. I work with octogenarians and a Lady Gaga ringtone is going to give someone a heart attack.”
“That’s Eat Your Dead, by the way. Lady Gaga is pop. ” She spit the word like it was spoiled meat. “Special cleanup on aisle four, boss,” she whispered, and hung up.
He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the aisle from where he stood. He slipped his phone back in his pocket, walked past the cash register, and unlocked the door that kept the drugs secure.
He saw the kid the minute he pulled the door closed behind him. A Hispanic boy with sloppy, too-big clothes stood at the magazine rack with the casual “I’m not doing anything” demeanor of a shoplifter. Sin was an expert at spotting them but this one was more obvious than most. The kid stopped leafing through a muscle-car magazine, shot a glance up the aisle, then slipped the magazine in the waistband of his saggy jeans.
Damn it, these kids never gave up. Where were their parents? He was tired of little delinquents pilfering his stock. It was time to set an example that would deter other kids. The twerp’s luck had just run out because Adam was flat sick of this. He tipped his chin at Joyce, the cashier—it was the signal to let the kid go.
He followed the boy and once the door closed behind them, Adam grabbed the thief’s shirt collar.
“Hey, lemme go!” The punk twisted to see who had a hold of him.
Adam tightened his grip. “Go? The only place you’re going is jail.” He retrieved his cell from his pocket and scrolled his contacts while the kid struggled.
“I didn’t do anything. What’re you—a pervert? Lemme go!”
The kid was stronger than Adam would have guessed. He had to twist the boy’s T-shirt collar around his fist. “Settle. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Help!” The kid pulled at his collar, frantic. “Somebody help—he’s trying to kidnap me!”
Tourists strolling by slowed, uncertain.
A little old lady in orange Bermuda shorts stopped and glared at him. “What are you doing with that child?”
Oh, hell.
* * *
P RISS GUNNED THE engine, running ten miles over the posted twenty-five in the downtown area, checking the rearview mirror for cop strobes. She’d meant to be home a half
The pocket gapped. Priss reached in and pulled out a roll of money, held together with a rubber band. No evening’s tips, these—twenties and tens, more than an inch thick. When she slid the band off and unfurled the bills, a piece of paper fell out. She unfolded it to find a list of states, with a line through Nevada, Florida, Michigan and Ohio. What, was she trying for a man in every state? Priss flipped through the bills, counting, stunned by the tally. What had she been saving for? Bail money for Nacho’s father before the trial? A deposit on a decent place to live in? Nah. Cora Hart had lived in places like this her entire life, and she’d been way too old a leopard to change her spots.
Priss fingered the rough, dingy white cotton rectangle with its long, dangling ties. Her mother had owned it forever. When it began whispering memories, Priss lifted it off the peg and tossed it over her shoulder to silence it.
Hell, she was back in her mother’s world—why not use her old apron? Priss told herself she wasn’t being sentimental, just practical; she needed an apron anyway.
The alarm on her phone blatted “Reveille.” Time to get to work. She slipped the map and the money into her purse, and took the few steps to the living room.
Snatching up the half-full plastic bin, she walked out, locked the door to the past once more and slipped the key under the door.
* * *
A DAM STOOD IN front of his narcotics shelf taking inventory, when a woman’s voice screeched in his pocket. Dang it, Sin must’ve reprogrammed his phone again. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. “Sin, this is not funny. I work with octogenarians and a Lady Gaga ringtone is going to give someone a heart attack.”
“That’s Eat Your Dead, by the way. Lady Gaga is pop. ” She spit the word like it was spoiled meat. “Special cleanup on aisle four, boss,” she whispered, and hung up.
He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the aisle from where he stood. He slipped his phone back in his pocket, walked past the cash register, and unlocked the door that kept the drugs secure.
He saw the kid the minute he pulled the door closed behind him. A Hispanic boy with sloppy, too-big clothes stood at the magazine rack with the casual “I’m not doing anything” demeanor of a shoplifter. Sin was an expert at spotting them but this one was more obvious than most. The kid stopped leafing through a muscle-car magazine, shot a glance up the aisle, then slipped the magazine in the waistband of his saggy jeans.
Damn it, these kids never gave up. Where were their parents? He was tired of little delinquents pilfering his stock. It was time to set an example that would deter other kids. The twerp’s luck had just run out because Adam was flat sick of this. He tipped his chin at Joyce, the cashier—it was the signal to let the kid go.
He followed the boy and once the door closed behind them, Adam grabbed the thief’s shirt collar.
“Hey, lemme go!” The punk twisted to see who had a hold of him.
Adam tightened his grip. “Go? The only place you’re going is jail.” He retrieved his cell from his pocket and scrolled his contacts while the kid struggled.
“I didn’t do anything. What’re you—a pervert? Lemme go!”
The kid was stronger than Adam would have guessed. He had to twist the boy’s T-shirt collar around his fist. “Settle. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Help!” The kid pulled at his collar, frantic. “Somebody help—he’s trying to kidnap me!”
Tourists strolling by slowed, uncertain.
A little old lady in orange Bermuda shorts stopped and glared at him. “What are you doing with that child?”
Oh, hell.
* * *
P RISS GUNNED THE engine, running ten miles over the posted twenty-five in the downtown area, checking the rearview mirror for cop strobes. She’d meant to be home a half
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